The World Without a Future (The World Without End) (14 page)

I hammer on Jesse's door for almost five minutes before he throws it open, cursing. I ignore his anger, shoving into the house. "I need a car. A Hummer or Jeep, if you have them. Fully stocked."

"When?" he asks, and I glance at him.

"Now."

He makes an amused noise in his throat. I frown, watching his expression slip from amused to
oh shit
. "Dammit, O'Malley, you can't keep pulling this shit."

"Actually," I drawl, letting my accent thicken, "I can."

He scowls, and I nod at the back of the house. "Do you have anything?"

"Not a fucking Hummer," he snarls. I want to punch him—the thought of his hands on Ren makes me violent, and his pissy attitude is just lighting the fuse on my temper.

"What do you have?" I demand, my voice low and controlled. Jesse's eyes narrow, and he strides toward the back of the house.

"An armored truck. Ford started production in Haven 46 last year. It's gonna cost a shit ton, though."

"Speed?"

"No gov. You can tap her out at 120—she's got a good sized tank, so you can easily travel between Havens. Where are you headed?"

I ignore the question and eye the truck. It's not my style—I prefer something a little sleeker or more obviously aggressive. But there's a gun turret mounted in the bed of the truck, which could be hella fun in a fight. I nod. "Make it happen."

"Dude—price."

I make an annoyed noise. "You know better. The money will be wired tonight. Keep the Porsche, too."

Annoyance flickers across his face, but I ignore it and head for the front door. "Get it to my place in thirty minutes. Fully stocked, Jesse."

"I didn't touch Ren."

I jerk around—and curse myself for reacting. Jesse's watching me, his eyes somewhere between amused and afraid. "I thought about it. I almost did—she's a hot little piece. But I wouldn't touch her."

I smile, coldly. "Thirty minutes," I repeat. And leave.

Before ERI-Milan swept through the world, people lived in houses with porches, screen doors, and window that opened.

After the virus hit, things changed. Life went on—humans are too damn stubborn to quit completely—but it was different. America, Canada, Mexico—they were isolated from the European countries. Africa took longer to fall to the infection. All the third world countries fared better in those first few months than their more influential neighbors. They weren’t dependent on ERI, so it didn’t mutate in the population. But eventually, the tide of the dead hit them, and they didn't have a chance against the horde. Africa fell to the dead within six months, South America two months later. India and China were overwhelmed by sheer numbers, until the Chinese army rallied.

By then, we were alone, getting the barest of updates from the rest of the world. Fighting our own war against infection and trying to adapt—to survive.

It was an architect who created the bolt holes—a student at the University of Chicago, who hid in a basement vault in his apartment building until the dead finally took everything breathing and moved on. He was insane, a mess of crazy, when the National Guard found him a few days after the Fall of Chicago, but he had plans on him. A brick and metal safe, perfect for surviving.

He killed himself, two nights after the Guard bundled him onto a boat in the middle of Lake Michigan. Ate a bullet and scared the ever-loving shit out of the other refugees.

His plans lived on—now, every private residence is equipped with a Hale Hall. Over the years, they’ve been adapted and become big business in the northwest—not surprising since they originated there.

I approach mine, staring. It’s top of the line—double steel walls, lined with zom repellent, coded to a body signature to open, followed by a retinal scan. It was the best money could buy, a neat little hole to waste away in. I press my thumb on the pad, and it warms, flashing green. The grip locks on me, and I feel the prick of a dart against my eye as the retinal scan activates—the dart is pressurized—if the scan picks up traces of the virus, it’ll fire through my eye, lodge in my brain, and explode. Messy, but effective.

Even knowing I’m clean, I hold my breath as the light flashes an alarming orange then hits bright, blinding green. The grip on my head relaxes, and I lean back as the explosive dart retracts. There’s a soft his of pressurized air, and the door swings outward. Ren is sitting cross-legged on the bench, her knee bouncing nervously. I force my smile down, away, and nod at the bag she’s dragged in the Hale Hall. “What’s that?”

“Clothes. Food—all the weapons I could find. Make sure I didn’t forget something you want, and we’re ready to leave.”

A surge of pride and approval hits me, and I turn away, striding through the house and scanning it. There’s nothing here—nothing that I give a damn about. It’s just a place to rest and hide, a place where my past hasn’t died completely.

I shouldn’t have a past—not anymore. Everyone lost that when the zombies rose. I don’t know why mine is the only one who seems convinced it’s a zombie and won’t just fucking die.

I crouch by a chair in the living room, prying the floorboard up and scooping out the cash and credentials I have hidden. I toss one travel pass to her. It’s not her picture or her name, but the resemblance is close enough.

“Memorize that,” I order, shoving everything in a bag and standing, kicking the floorboard back into place.

She’s watching me, but doesn’t say anything. I hear a roar on the road, and I grab her bag, tossing it over my shoulder as I lead her outside.

Her eyes are sparkling as she stares in fascination at the massive black truck, the thick bulky doors, studded with spikes. Razor wire wraps around the grill and tailgate—I could drive this through a horde and part them like butter.

Her voice is breathless and squeaky, hitting me straight in the groin, when she says, “Oh, Finn.” I glance at her, and she grins at me. “Can I drive it?”

She drives. When she asked like that, I could hardly deny her. And I could use the opportunity to go over the supplies she packed. The truck is fully outfitted with a field med kit and food, weapons and extra rounds of ammo for the machine gun.

“Is that really a gun on the truck?” she asks. Her voice, even an hour into our drive, vibrates with excitement. Good—I want her happy, not thinking about Third Day.

“Yup. Apparently, this is Ford’s new model.”

She whistles, petting it, and I feel an irrational jealousy for the steering wheel. “Must have cost a fortune.”

Ren grins at me archly, and I laugh. “Quit fishing, Nurrin. I’m not answering shit.”

She huffs a breath and stares broodily out the window.

“Why do you care so much?” I ask, keeping my voice deliberately neutral.

Ren snorts. “You’re Collin’s best friend, and I know nothing about you. You can afford neural inhibitors, and a top of the line tank, but you’re a Walker and an orphan. You were somewhere you shouldn’t have been when Hellspawn fell, but you saved my life. You hate me, but you kiss me.”

Her words are so soft on the last one, I almost don’t hear her. Almost.

“There’s very little you need to know about me,” I say, staring out at the passing mountains. The trees blur, flashing red occasionally as we speed pass infects. “My past doesn’t matter. Money doesn’t matter. The only thing that you need to know is that Collin trusts me and I won’t put you in danger.”

Her gaze darts to me, and I see questions brewing, the denial on the tip of her tongue. I turn to the back of the truck and slip through the little door that accesses the bed—and the machine gun.

I spend more time mentally retreating from her than I am comfortable with, but I’m not going to think about that right now. She hits the gas a little harder, and I slip on the steel bed, catching the gun and holding on as we race through the mountains and the desert, headed for the remains of Sin City.

We hit Vegas at dusk, and I can hear the screams from the rubble outskirts. I slow to an idle and look at Nurrin. She’s pale, her blonde hair sticking to her sweaty neck. “What’s your name?” I ask sharply, and her gaze snaps to me.

“Kelsey Cain,” she says. She rattles off a dead girl’s birth date and statistics, and I nod approvingly. “You’re Sean Jackson. Born in Buffalo, but moved west with the evac orders during the first wave. Mother and Father were killed when New York fell. Sister is alive and living in Haven 3.”

I nod. “Good girl. Remember—nowhere without me. Not even a Hale Hall, do you understand? I have no presence in Vegas, and we’re going without my name as backup, so we’ve got each other and nothing else. I’m going to get what we came for and get the fuck out.”

She nods—Vegas is a hellhole at the best of times, and Third Day is a far cry from the best of times.

“Do you think it’s already started?” she asks. I look out the windshield—smoke is rising from the ruined city, and the screams have increased in pitch, shrillness.

It’s ironic, in the worst possible way, that The Blessed Order took Sin City as their headquarters.

“Yeah, Ren. It’s already started,” I say softly.

Her hand clenches and unclenches, and I push down the urge to reach for it, to smooth my thumb over her knuckles. She nods sharply, and I put the car in gear, easing us forward through the rubble.

Vegas—now Haven 21—is different from most Havens. It doesn’t have walls, orchards, and fields. It doesn’t have brick apartment buildings for the orphans and the forgotten. The streets aren't drenched in zom repellent.

Instead it has one single, shining monument to human depravity, a tower of sex and greed and stupidity. I pull through the wall of rubble, and Ren’s fingers clench rhythmically on her gun. We drive through the streets without much fanfare or issue. The streets are clear of infects—startlingly so. But as we drive deeper into the city, closer to the Palace, the screams intensify, until they echo off the buildings, off the vehicles, off everything to bounce and reverberate. She huddles into herself, and I see the first one.

The infect is racing down the street, his face twisted in a gross distortion. One eye socket is empty, the other so decayed all I can see is blood. His hands are gone, splintery bones where the appendages should be.

He’s grotesque, and I can’t look away, even though I know what’s coming. I see the sacrifice, running through the streets first.

The girl is young—not even a First. She’s too young to be. Her eyes are wide, and she sees us, the truck, an instant before the zombie screams and jumps the last few feet. She stares, pleading, and then she screams, another voice joining the melody of wailing. I look away, jaw tight. Shove the truck a little faster. At my side, Ren makes a soft, distressed noise, and I cut my eyes at her. “She’s gone, Nurrin.”

Tears sparkle in her eyes, but she nods.

We pass three more token victims before we hit the main drag.

And then we stop, unable to move, and I’m suddenly grateful for the tank I paid a shit ton of money for. A zombie slams into Ren’s door. She yelps, skidding across the bench until she’s pressed against me, trembling as we stare at the decayed face and the gouges it’s leaving on the glass.